


abstractions

by the_space_between_stars



Category: Blindspot (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 12:07:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5047948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_space_between_stars/pseuds/the_space_between_stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of short, interconnected one-shots based on one-word prompts about Jane and her development as a character.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. eyes

Breathing becomes difficult beneath the weight of his steely gaze. No one has ever looked at her like this, as if the center of the universe had ceased to be the sun and the stars now danced around _her_ and her alone. It's _exhilarating_ , and breathtakingly familiar. Despite the infuriating lack of cooperation on her mind's part, she recognizes him. She _knows_ him. And every time he looks at her she doesn't feel quite as lost as she should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, that was extremely short... I apologize for the brevity, but I'm trying out a new style of writing that doesn't involve endless amounts of description (my greatest weakness).


	2. hands

The first time they touch, _really_ touch, is the night she finds herself clinging to him as though the ground has crumbled away beneath her feet. It's the first- and _only_ \- time she's felt safe since she crawled, naked, out of a duffel back in the middle of Times Square. Later, when her body gives out and sends her sprawling to the floor in a heap of boneless limbs, she wraps her arms around herself and tries to recapture the warmth of his embrace. It's a poor imitation in comparison to his steady build and the sense of unwavering stability he seems to radiate without effort, but even the ghost of his touch is enough to keep her from shattering as she cries herself into an uneasy slumber.


	3. grip

She thinks she's losing her mind. The near-empty liquor bottle in front of her seems to agree; the pale glow of the muted television making the amber dregs of whiskey cast a patch of gold light across the skin of her lower thigh, illuminating one of the endless mysteries spelled out across her body through constellations of midnight ink. A bitter laugh escapes her lips, the sound husky and rough as it emerges from the raw, alcohol-stripped flesh of her throat. All she wants to do is forget- forget the way it feels to have blood splatter across her face before the sound of the shot that kills the nameless intruder even reaches her ears. (She just wanted him to tell her who she _is_ , who she has _been_ for the past twenty-five years since Taylor's abduction.) Forget the way fear nearly overrode her control over her limbs in the cemetery that earlier this week when the man with the oil-slick smile made his offer. (She'd like to bury the feeling of her blood turning to ice in her veins as the seconds ticked on and her instincts _screamed_ for her to run because, for a moment that felt like a year, it seemed as though her new boss would actually _agree_ to his demands.)

 

It's laughably ironic, really- wanting to forget when she could barely _remember_ as it is... But if her flashbacks to the man with the rough-knuckled hands are any indication, remembering might also be a path she'd like to avoid as well.

 

There's a knock at her door and then the world is spinning, round and round and _round_ , as she pushes herself to stand. (A purple top twirls atop a wooden table until it hits a pockmark and-) someone's still knocking. She escapes the blurry remembrance with a shake of her head and makes her way to the foyer without incident, though, perhaps, she does it with less grace than she'd care to admit. Then she pulls open the door with a little more force than necessary and finds herself stumbling back, _fall_ -

 

He catches her by the waist with ease, the heat of his palms seeping through the thin cotton of her tank top, and the world grinds itself to a halt as her breath catches in her throat. Her heart is racing, and she's almost certain that he can hear the way it hammers in her chest. Her foggy brain stutters out one thought with surprising clarity. This- here, now, _him_ \- is why she has stayed, why she has forced herself to ignore the way the jagged edges of her shattered psyche grind against each other and ~~pain pain pain~~ continue to put her life at risk day after day, over and over in an endless cycle of fistfights and gunfire as death begins to shroud her waking moments like a curse. She does it all for him, for the way he looks at her, the way he smiles when she's around, and the way his grip- on her hands, her waist, her shoulders- makes the world keep spinning- _madly_ \- on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> props to whoever caught The Weepies reference


End file.
